


Say that I mean nothing to you

by neveranygoodupthere



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2012 Stanley Cup Playoffs, 2012-2013 NHL Lockout, 2015 IIHF Ice Hockey World Championships, 2016 Stanley Cup Playoffs, A serious disregard for the limitations of anatomy, Bathroom Sex, Cole Harbour, Comeplay, D/s undertones, Enemies to Lovers, Hate Sex, M/M, Mild Feminization, More sex than there probably should be oops, Past Sidney Crosby/Alexander Ovechkin, Phone Sex, Sidney Crosby/Alexander Ovechkin friendship, Undernegotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 04:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13139376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveranygoodupthere/pseuds/neveranygoodupthere
Summary: “You’re being stupid. I’ve seen all those pictures of you—playing beer pong, corn hole.” Crosby cuts his eyes up and down Claude’s body, almost too quick to catch. But Claude notices. “I’m surprised you have a shirt on right now.”





	Say that I mean nothing to you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [downjune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/downjune/gifts).



> Downjune, you are my favorite writer in this fandom, and I'm so pleased I got to write this fic for you. I was a little too ambitious with it for my writing abilities/my ability to write w/in deadline, but I still really hope you enjoy it.  
> I didn't take your exact prompt for Sid/Claude, but was inspired by your sex as character study Like. Sorry for how porn-y it gets at certain parts??? Happy Holidays, I guess :) 
> 
> Some spoiler-y notes at the end!
> 
> The title is a bit changed from a line in "First Class" by Rainbow Kitten Surprise

** PART ONE **

 

“You’re going to fuck up your recovery if you keep doing stupid shit like that.”

Claude doesn’t pause in his task of setting out Solo cups along a folding table, preparing for a game of Flip Cup.

“Don’t see how it’s any business of yours.”

Crosby, who Claude’s been trying to avoid since he showed up at Max’s “post-playoffs/pre-summer” barbecue half an hour earlier, moves beside him. “Just friendly advice.” He’s standing too close, observing the two rows of cups with a critical eye when Claude finally deigns to glance at him.

“Can you move? I need to pour the beer.” Claude doesn’t wait for him to step back, but reaches across him to grab the pitcher. His arm brushes Crosby’s stomach, but Sid doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he claims the pitcher for himself, swooping it out of Claude’s hands as he moves to pour the first cup. No beer sloshes out because of course Crosby’s too slick for that.

“You’re being stupid. I’ve seen all those pictures of you—playing beer pong, corn hole.” Crosby cuts his eyes up and down Claude’s body, almost too quick to catch. But Claude notices. “I’m surprised you have a shirt on right now.”

Now that’s interesting…Crosby’s face is lightly flushed as he pours the beer into the cups, precisely the same amount for each one. Even as he has to reach to the other side of the table, he doesn’t move from his too-close position next to Claude. When he’s finished, he sets the pitcher down, gives a perfunctory nod, and strolls over to Max and his new girlfriend Cynthia.

What the fuck. Claude rubs at his wrists. He’s five weeks out from surgery, and they’ve downgraded from the casts he had to Velcro braces that he can remove to exercise his wrists. How dare Crosby—the whole entire reason he had surgery to begin with—act like he’s not doing everything he needs to do to recover. Talbo’s been excited about this barbecue since their season unceremoniously ended, wanting to introduce his friends to “the one, G, I tell you, I know,” so Claude didn’t want to start anything but…

And what was that with the standing too close and checking him out? Could Crosby be…but no. He would’ve heard. The guys in the league who lean that way, they all know or know of each other he thought. Someone would’ve mentioned…

“G, you ok?” Simmer claps him on the back, startling Claude. He looks around to see a bunch of Flyers have gathered around the table to play Flip Cup. He gives himself a mental shake and lines up behind a cup.

“I’m good, man. Let’s get the party started.”

  
***

The rest of the barbecue, Claude is uncomfortably aware of Sid. It seems every time he looks up, Sid’s watching him with an indiscernible expression. He’s frequently standing by himself, or talking to Cynthia. Not surprising since most everyone else at the party are Flyers. Claude can’t figure out why Sid even bothered to come all this way. Why hasn’t he flown back home for summer? He tries to ask Talbo what the deal is, but Max only shrugs and says, “I invited him, he said he’d come.”

The more Claude thinks about it, the angrier it makes him. How dare Crosby. How dare he act like a complete asshole the whole playoffs, lose, then not have the decency to lick his wounds in the wilds of Cole Harbour. How dare he come here around Claude’s team, rub Claude’s face in his own loss, and then have the gall to flirt while he does it. Does he know? Did he figure out that Claude is into that? Or worse, that Claude is into him? No, can’t be that. Claude’s never told _anyone_ that much about himself. How would that even go over? “Hey, just fyi, I’m a hockey player, I like dudes sometimes, and you know that one hockey player who I hate more than my own life but who can score off the backhand like a wet dream? Yeah. That’s who I jerk off to.”

And the _confidence_ Crosby has. To look at Claude like he has a right to. To assess him, like he’s assessing tape. Claude can feel his eyes tracking him while he’s drinking a bottle of Yuengling and talking to Coots. He knows Crosby is somewhere behind him. He turns his body slightly, a poor attempt at discretion, and he was right. There’s Crosby posted up beside the door to the house, eyes hooded, watching him.

Claude glares at Sid, defiant, as he takes a swig of beer. But Sid only quirks the corner of his mouth in response. Then he does something that makes Claude think he’s hallucinating. He raises his eyebrows in a question then tilts his head toward the door. And before Claude has a chance to interpret that, he opens the door and slides through, leaving it cracked in invitation.

For the second time that afternoon, Claude has to ask himself: What the actual fuck. Does Crosby think he’ll, what, just follow him into the house? And to what end? He glances around the yard, but no one else seems to have noticed Sid’s strange behavior. Talbo’s flirting with Cynthia, Simmer’s pouring a drink from the keg…no one is looking his way. He considers ignoring it—going through that door is probably the most self-destructive thing he could do. But his curiosity is too strong and the possibilities are too tempting, so Claude makes his excuses to Coots and winds his way through Talbo’s guests into the house. It’s a big enough place, but Claude’s been here before and if he was going to have a quickie, he’d pick the upstairs guest bedroom bathroom—it’s at the back of a hallway, behind two doors, and it’s small so no one really remembers it exists. But Claude bets Sid does, so that’s where he heads.

When he reaches the bathroom, the door is open a sliver, the same as Sid left the door to the back yard, and inside the water is running. Claude pauses a minute before he opens it. Is this really happening? What if he completely misinterpreted Sid’s look? What if he’s only been staring because Claude’s been staring? What if that’s not even him in there? What if…but no. Sid’s not in charge here. They’re in Philly. This is Claude’s turf. He quickly undoes the straps on his braces so he can tug them off, tucks each in a back pocket, and pushes open the door.

Sid is standing in front of the square pedestal sink drying his hands, the fly of his jeans undone. His t-shirt is off; Claude sees it folded neatly on the window sill above the tub. Claude takes a moment to appreciate the expanse of his bare back—the breadth of his shoulders, his trim waist where he hasn’t yet put on much summer weight. Sid catches Claude’s roving eye in the mirror and smirks, and Claude has reached his limit.

Already hardening from the sight of Sid partially undone, Claude strides forward, barely remembering to shut the door behind him, and crowds Sid against the sink, pushing his hips into Sid’s ass. Sid braces himself on the sink, but Claude grasps one of his hands, unbalancing him, and slaps it on the wall beside the mirror. He does the same with the other hand. He’s spread along Sid’s back now, hands acting as manacles to keep his arms in place.

“Keep them there,” he says in a voice he’s never heard from himself before. But Sid responds to it with a swiftness that takes Claude’s breath away. Again, the theme of the day seems to be _What the actual fuck is happening_. This is out of one of Claude’s most private fantasies, to have Crosby at his mercy, eager and aching for Claude to take charge of him.

Claude catches Crosby’s gaze in the mirror again, hot and defiant, but his hands remain on the wall. Claude steps back long enough to tug Sid’s jeans and underwear down to mid thigh, then does the same to his own, moving to pull off t-shirt at as well.

“Stop.” His eyes snap back to Sid’s in the mirror.

“Quoi?” he says, startled enough to lose his English momentarily.

For the first time, Sid looks unsure. He’s breathing hard, his face and chest flushed.

“Can you…will you leave it on?”

Claude eyes him skeptically, hand still poised to whip the shirt over his head. “You want me to leave my shirt on?”

“Yeah.” If possible, Sid flushes even darker. Claude wants to argue. Does Crosby not want to see him? But the look in his eye—no, this isn’t Crosby not wanting to see him. This is A Thing for him. So Claude drops his hand.

“I can do that. But that’s the last thing you get to decide. Ouais?” Crosby’s been calling the shots all afternoon it seems. Claude’s done with it. In here, he’s calling them.

Sid drops his head for a second and Claude thinks he’s fucked up. He runs a tentative hand down Sid’s back. He wants to run it down Sid’s _impressive ass_ , but first he needs to hear an okay from him.

“Crosby.” He tugs on Sid’s hair, not enough to hurt, just to get his attention. Sid whimpers and Claude has to bite his lip, filing that new information away for later. “Sid. Gotta say yes or no, man.”

Sid finally looks at him in the mirror again. “Yes, do it.” Then he spreads his legs the last inch that his jeans will let him, and leans forward to give Claude better access, his hands still around the mirror so the position is awkward, but Claude doesn’t think he minds. His cock is leaking and hard as a rock. Claude’s too. He can’t believe he’s going to do this. Can’t believe this is even happening. It’s like something out of a fucking porno.

He leans forward, flush against Crosby’s back, and pumps some lotion resting on Talbo’s sink onto his fingers. Briefly he wishes they were skin to skin, but he catches Crosby subtly twitch his shoulders so they rub on the fabric, a low, pleased noise escaping him, and decides he could like this too. But he can’t lay against him forever. He backs up to slick his cock up then sets about working Crosby open with his fingers. Crosby watches him in the mirror and it’s disconcerting to see his eyes, which have been judgmental, flirtatious, and unsure throughout the day, have returned to the brutal hatred Claude’s used to seeing on the ice. For a split second, Claude’s confused, and his erection flags. If Sid doesn’t want this…

But then he starts to remove his fingers and the broken sound Sid lets out is the exact opposite of hatred. No, he definitely wants this. He just doesn’t want to. Or wants to pretend he doesn’t. Claude can work with that.

He stops wasting his time prepping and grips his cock, lining himself up. He’s barely gotten the tip in before Sid’s moving backward to push him in farther. He only gives Sid a few seconds to adjust before he’s pounding into him. The noises he makes…Claude’s glad there are two doors between them and the rest of the house.

Sid’s head has dropped again and Claude doesn’t like that because he can’t monitor his reactions to make sure he’s still enjoying it. He grips his hair, dragging him up until they’re staring at each other in the mirror. Crosby’s got the defiant look back in his eye and Claude wants to smack it right off.

“You don’t like me, huh?” he says and Sid’s eyes blaze.

“I fucking hate you.”

Claude grips his hair tighter. “You don’t like anyone on my team?”

“I hate all of you,” he grits out, then Claude hits him at just the right angle and he cries out.

“Yet here you are, letting me fuck you, taking it so good.” Claude can barely keep from coming at the moan Sid lets out at those words. God, he’s so vocal. Claude loves it. But no way in fuck is he coming before him. He reaches around with the hand not holding Sid’s hair to jerk him off until he shudders with his climax, come splashing onto Talbo’s sink. Claude presses his face into the crook of Sid’s neck and follows him over. He’s collapsed onto Sid’s back, and can’t even muster up the energy to feel embarrassed about it.

It takes him a minute before he can pull out. Sid obediently keeps his hands on the wall the entire time, but as soon as Claude steps away, he pushes himself upright. Claude grabs a washcloth from the shelf and nudges Crosby aside to run it under water and wipe himself and Talbo’s sink down. Crosby reaches for the cloth when he’s done, but almost unconsciously, Claude holds it away from him.

“Leave it," he says.

“What?”

“I want you to leave it.” He doesn't know where the words are coming from. He only knows that Sid's got his come running down his thighs, and if he isn't able to clean it off, he'll have to go back out to the barbecue knowing that Claude's marked him.

“And why the fuck would I do that?”

“Because I beat you. I want you to remember.” Sid stares at him incredulously. Claude’s already regretting his words, but he refuses to take them back. Instead, he zips his jeans and darts out the door. Not the smoothest exit from a quickie he’s ever had, but he’ll take it. He just fucked Sidney Crosby, and really, nothing is smoother than that.

  
***

  
An hour later, Claude’s successfully avoided 1) anyone asking where he’s been and 2) catching Sid watching him again. He’s more than a little regretful of their encounter, but even more regretful that he’ll never know if Crosby listened to him. Not that Claude really expects him to, but…

And there he is, yet again hugging the outskirts and talking to Talbo’s girlfriend. Claude keeps glancing at them surreptitiously, but Crosby doesn’t meet his eye for another five minutes.

Finally, though, finally he looks up. Claude can’t help himself. He quirks an eyebrow up in question. Unexpectedly, Crosby smirks.

Even more unexpected though, is his quick survey of the room to make sure no one’s paying attention and then covert wink and nod.

“Holy fuck” is the only response Claude can muster. He did it. “Holy fuck.”

“What’s that, G?”

Claude blinks up at Simmer, and it’s a few seconds before he can answer. “Nothing, man. Just think I’ve worked my wrists a bit too much today.”

 

* * *

 

Sid hadn’t gone to Max’s barbecue to fuck Claude. _Maybe_ the thought entered his mind once or twice, what with all the media stories detailing Claude’s appalling recovery protocol that apparently consisted of him playing fratty lawn games shirtless at various parties in Philly. And fratty hockey players with the beginnings of a summer paunch have always done it for Sid, especially ones he has a contentious relationship with. He’s not one to mix business with pleasure, though, so, with one notable exception, he doesn’t hook up with guys in the league.

Then Max’s party came and Claude had been lining up those fucking Solo cups and Sid couldn’t take it anymore. The easiness with which Claude followed him up to Max’s guest bathroom still amazes him. Up until Claude opened the door, Sid hadn’t even been sure he was into guys. But it’s not like every gay or bi hockey player knew each other.

After the party, Sid bullied Max into giving him Claude’s number, but he hasn’t used it. He considers contacting him after he makes the cover of NHL 13. He thinks about it for at least a week. Remembers the feel of Claude’s fingers inside him, doing the bare minimum of prep. Remembers the effort it took to keep his hands on the wall of Talbo’s bathroom, off balance and overwhelmed. Remembers deciding to walk back to the party with Claude’s come drying on his ass and thighs. Remembers washing it off in the hotel shower that night and getting himself off again.

But what would he even say? They’re hundreds of miles apart and Giroux probably thinks he’s a freaky perv anyway. Even though he’d ostensibly been in charge of the scene, Sid had orchestrated it. Sid was the one who walked around his friend’s back yard sticky and unclean. So he goes about his life and doesn’t text Claude and masturbates in front of his bathroom mirror more than once, one hand on his cock, the other tugging at his hair.

Then the universe grants him another gift in the form of Claude, the asshole, telling some interviewer that those scars are because of Sid. _Sid_ is the reason, apparently, that Claude had wrist surgery. And honestly. It’s bull shit. Sid knows it is. Playing hard is not a crime. And if Giroux can’t get his hands _out of the fucking way_ to win a faceoff, then it’s not Sid’s fault.

But he can’t be too angry, because he still wants to climb Claude like a rescue ladder, and how likely is it that the universe has given him two reasons to reach out? So three days after the article comes out, while lying in bed, bored and restless and horny, he checks the clock. Not even 11 p.m. Definitely still early enough for a phone call, especially when he’s been staring at the contact “C” in his phone all summer and if he stares for one minute more he’ll go insane. He presses the call button. Then presses it three more times before Claude actually picks up.

“Yeah?” he snaps, voice gruff with sleep and annoyance through Sid’s bluetooth. Oops.

“I didn’t break your wrists.”

“Sid?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were a telemarketer.”

Sid laughs. “At 10:45 at night? Sorry to disappoint.”

“No, it’s—it’s fine.” Claude clears his throat. “Why are you calling?”

“To tell you I didn’t break your wrists.” Sid doesn’t actually care if Claude thinks he broke his wrists. He didn’t. Probably.

Silence. Then, “Seriously?”

“No,” Sid says, working to keep the smile out of his voice.

“Oookay. Then why did you call?”

“You tell me.” Sid says, voice low and suggestive. He shifts and slides off his sweats and boxer briefs. He’s already half hard just listening to Claude’s sleep-rough voice, but now he lazily strokes himself into full hardness.

The pause on the other end of the line doesn’t worry him. He slips lower onto the bed, closes his eyes, and waits. Then he hears Claude’s deep intake of breath.

“Tell me what you’re doing right now,” Claude commands, all the sleep gone from his voice. Sid complies instantly.

“I’m in bed, no covers. I’ve got a t-shirt on. Nothing else. I’ve got my dick in my hands, and I’m—”

“Stop.” Sid stops—talking, stroking himself, breathing almost. “Take your hands off your dick. Don’t touch yourself.” Sid swallows. _Finally, finally._

“Done.”

“You woke me up. I’m not prepared. I don’t like that.” The censure in Claude’s voice curls over Sid and he barely stops himself from smiling.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry, you’re gonna make it up to me. Just let me—” Sid hears rustling on the other end. Then, “Can you hear me?”

His voice sounds far away like he’s turned on the speaker phone. “I hear you.” With the delay and not being able to touch himself, Sid’s flagging a little. He wants to give himself a quick stroke, just to bring himself back into the moment, but he doesn’t.

“I’m sitting on a chair in my room. It’s big and soft. I want you to come sit on my lap, facing out. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Sid closes his eyes, sinks down into the pillows as if into Claude’s chest.

“Good. Are you touching yourself?”

“No. You told me not to.”

“So good, Sid. That’s so good.” Instantly, Sid’s back at full mast. He closes his eyes, imagines himself in the room with Claude, pressed skin to skin, Claude’s praise floating over him. “Do you have any toys with you? A dildo?”

“Yes.”

“Can you get it, put it in yourself?”

Sid reaches into his nightstand, his hands shaking a little with anticipation, and grabs the toy there. He has a whole collection hidden under his bed, but this one is his favorite, medium-sized, flesh-colored, and no vibrator—the closest to the real thing he can get. He takes a few minutes to lube up, prep himself just enough, and makes sure to keep his hands away from his dick. When it’s finally in he reclines and says a somewhat strained, “I’m ready.”

“When you sit down,” Claude continues as if there had been no break, “you slide right onto my cock. You knew I wouldn’t be ready, so you got yourself ready for me. You’re wet and loose and so easy for me. Right?”

“God, so easy for you.” Sid tilts his hips to better feel the toy in him. “Am I moving on you? Are you pushing into me?”

“Nobody’s moving. Be patient. I want you to sit on my dick, still. My arms are wrapped around you. Look down. Do you see the scars on my wrists?”

Sid looks down blindly. “Yes, yes, I see them.” He sees his leaking cock.

“You put those there. They’re yours.” Sid can’t help the whine that escapes him. “Now I’m going to move. I’m going to fuck you until you come all over them. It’s going to be hard for me, though, with my hands held like this. You’ll have to help me. Do you understand?”

For a second, Sid doesn’t. His head is filled with the images of come covering Claude’s wrists, covering _his_ marks on Claude’s wrists, but then Claude bites out his name, and he snaps back to the moment. “Yes, I understand.” He grasps the dildo. “How do you want me to—”

“You woke me up, and I need my rest, so I need this to go fast. Can you do that?”

Instead of answering, Sid moves the toy within him, slow at first to get used to it, then fast and hard, as if Claude is pounding into him. Sid’s moans fill the air, loud so Claude can hear him, and between them he strains to hear the sound of Claude jerking off. The only indication he gets, though, is the slight hitch in Claude’s breath, which turns into an almost soundless whimper as Sid gets louder.

“Tell me how it feels.”

“Oh, God, Claude. So good. You’re filling me up, you’re so big, hitting me just—just right,” Sid works himself, getting his prostate with each thrust. “That’s it, right there, yeah, right there, oh fuck, oh fuck—”

“Oh, fuck,” Claude echoes, frantic too. “ _Sid_. I’m coming. Fuck.”

Sid stops working the dildo to listen to Claude come down. His breath is ragged, but he pulls himself together enough not to forget that Sid hasn’t come yet. “Do you see what you did? Do you see your come on me?”

Sid wonders if Claude actually came on his wrists. Flashes run through his head, what he would actually like to do with the come. His cock aches, and the toy still in his ass has him on the edge of desperation. “I see it.”

“I’m going to pull out. I want you to wipe the come from my wrists and use it to jerk—”

“No.”

“No?” Claude’s voice is sharp. This isn’t Sid’s show for all he initiated the encounter. But Sid thinks Claude will like where he’s headed.

“No, I’d—I’d put my mouth on—on them. On your wrists. I’d pull them up to my mouth and lick all of it off.”

“ _Jesus_ , Sid.”

“And while I’m licking my own come off of you, you—you try to kiss me.” The stutter is mostly for effect, because Sid loves this. Loves letting every filthy thought he has fall past his lips. It’s the way he loves to have sex, too. Base and dirty, with all parties reduced to a primal state of need, too busy chasing pleasure to worry if what they’re doing seems weird.

“How—how does that work? Me kissing you while you lick the come off my wrists?” Claude’s stutter is not for effect, Sid can tell.

“It doesn’t,” Sid says, running his tongue across his lips as if he can taste both Claude’s come and his mouth. “It’s sloppy and awkward and if anyone saw it they’d think we were disgusting. _Shit_.” Sid almost comes then, has to pause to take in deep breaths. Claude hasn’t let him touch himself, but imagining the two of them together like that, and someone seeing how filthy they are, is too much and Sid can’t stop his hips jerking into nothing, searching, searching. Then the toy hits him in just the right spot and it sends him over the edge.

“Claude, please. Please. I’ve gotta—”

“Do it,” he gasps. “Touch yourself.” Sid strokes himself hard once, twice, and comes with a shout. Seemingly from a distance he can hear Claude say “ _Mother of God_ ”

As he slowly comes back to himself, he’s not quite sure what to do. The phone sex wasn’t awkward, but how do you handle post-coital talk with someone who accused you of purposefully breaking their wrists and then got you both off because of it? He pulls the dildo out and makes a face at the unpleasant sensation of emptiness.

“So what do you think you’ll do if there’s a lockout?” Claude asks after a few minutes of heavy breathing, obviously not having the same issue. If Sid didn’t just come his brains out, his dick might have twitched in interest at the gruffness in Claude’s voice. But talking about the lockout is a mood killer no matter what.

“Uh, I’m not sure. Probably stick around to work with the PA.” Sid glances down at the phone incredulously. Are they really talking about this right now? “Why, do you think you’ll go overseas?”

“Maybe. Depends on who I can play with. I’ve got some things going on here but I don’t think they’ll keep me from traveling.”

“In Ottawa? Or Philly?” Sid really wants to get off the phone. He’s falling asleep, and it’s not like he and Claude have had an actual conversation…ever. But Claude sounds squirrely, like he’s working toward something, so Sid tries to stay awake.

“In Ottawa. I’ve met some cool people this summer. They’re…just some cool people.”

“That’s great, man,” Sid says. And when Claude doesn’t continue Sid gives up. “Listen I’m going to get some shuteye, okay?”

A pause, and then, “Sure. Catch you next time.” The phone clicks off. Sid takes his bluetooth out of his ear, gives a passing thought to cleaning himself up, and falls asleep.

***

For the next two months, Sid feels like he’s losing his mind. He constantly thinks of Claude. Mostly about sex with Claude. Sometimes about Claude as a person. But mostly sex. They don’t talk again, but they text, even though Sid hates it, and Claude doesn’t seem to be much of a texter himself. Sometimes he’ll go days before he answers Sid. Whenever that happens, though, Sid just sends him something dirty, and usually gets an answer immediately.

Sid’s never been obsessed with a guy like this. It’s like Claude has a magical dick that’s cast a spell over him. Aside from Sid’s strict rule of no hookups with fellow NHL-ers (which, really, can’t be that strict if he’s broken it twice now), the way he’s acting also violates his one-night-stands only rule. He’s distracted during training wondering if Claude’s texted him anything, he’s inattentive in meetings and during interviews. He’s even pretty sanguine about the upcoming lockout. He feels like he’s 15 with his first crush, and to tell the truth, he doesn’t hate it.

But when Claude announces that he’s following Danny Briere to Berlin without so much as hinting at it in any of their conversations, Sid decides enough is enough. He needs to get this obsession under control—either by eradicating it or making it something more formal. Fuck if he has any idea which path to choose though.

So Sid calls the only person in his life he trusts with information this personal and private, even when he’s clear across the world.

“Sidney Crosby, so surprised! What an honor, calling me all the way in Russia!”

“Shut up, Alex,” Sid says, grinning. He’s still in bed, having called Alex first thing in the morning to accommodate the 8-hour time difference. Just the sound of Alex’s voice calms him.

“You wound me, Sid. Haven’t heard from you in months and here you say mean things as soon as I pick up phone.”

“Yeah, yeah. How’s Russia? I hear you’re staying there forever.”

“Ahh, but you won’t let that happen, will you? Gonna yell at Gary Bettman until he brings me home?”

Sid laughs and lets the familiar waves of affection break over him. If anyone can get him out of his own head, it’s Alex. He’s been doing it since Sid clumsily asked him to exchange jerseys during a photo shoot in their early days as faces of the NHL. Then, he accomplished the impossible by gently teasing him until Sid blushed as red as the jersey Alex gave him. Later, he did it in dark hotel rooms in Pittsburgh and DC, performing the gentle teasing with his mouth and fingers and cock until Sid shook apart.

But over the years, Alex could never could understand Sid’s need to be broken down in private, and Sid could never understand his need to show out in public, so their passion turned to a deep respect and friendship, a friendship that Sid values over almost any other.  
  
“I’m doing my best. But I hear Backstrom might head over there soon.”

“Yes, I’ve asked him so many times. He will come. But I have to take nap soon, and I think this is not why you called all the way to Russia.”

Sid clears his throat. “Mm, yeah. Uh. I think I did something dumb.”

“Not surprised. I’m not there with you to keep you from dumb things. What is it? You finally make good on that big crush you had on Giroux?”

“Um.”

“Sid, no. I was kidding.” Sid didn’t expect the dismay in Alex’s voice. He doesn’t know what it means. Sleeping with Claude couldn’t have been that dumb.

“Um.”

“You serious?”

“Yeah. Only twice. Really, just once and then, you know, phone sex. And we’ve been texting.” Well, Sid has been texting. Claude answers when he wants to.

“So what’s problem?”

“Nothing yet, I guess. It’s just, I may not want it to be just a one off thing. He’s headed to Berlin in a few days. But when he comes back…” Sid trails off, unable to vocalize what exactly he imagines for the two of them.

“So keep doing it. Don’t know why you need to call me for this.” Sid sits up when he hears the annoyed, impatient tone in Alex’s voice.

“Why are you being so weird about this? I’m calling you because you’re my friend, and I needed to talk to someone. You’re the only one who knows about me.”

“Still? Should tell someone, Sid. I can’t be only one who knows. Tell Fleury or Zhenya or someone else on your _own team_. There are other people in league who don’t keep it so secret. Giroux is one of them!” That’s news to Sid, but not surprising. Sid doesn’t let anyone know about him, and tries as hard as possible not to know about anyone else in the league. Unless he sees them at a barbecue and can’t stop himself from finding out.

“I didn’t know it was such an issue for you to talk to me about this.”

“Is not _issue_ , Sid! I’m only say it’s better you not just have me to talk to.”

“Whatever, shit. This isn’t the conversation I wanted to have. I’m sorry I called.”

“Sid, no—”

“It’s fine, Alex. I’m just…sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Hell, maybe I’ll even see you over there.”

Sid ends the call without waiting for a response and runs his fingers through his hair, agitated. That had been one of his and Alex’s biggest points of contention, the fact that Sid had, and still has, no desire to share that part of himself with anyone other than the people directly involved. He isn’t overly worried about being outed or it affecting his career. He just doesn’t feel the need to declare to anyone who he likes having sex with, unless he’s actually having sex with them.

Whatever. He’s not one to shy away from difficult or awkward conversations. He picks up his phone again and presses the button for texts, scrolling to his last conversation with Claude.

_Have time for a call before you head to Berlin? Got something to ask._

Two weeks later, Sid’s phone dings with an incoming text. He snatches it up with an embarrassing eagerness that hasn’t dimmed since he fired off his message to Claude. So far, he’s heard nothing, and now is no different. The text is from Alex, the first contact they’ve had since the disastrous phone call.

**Sid, sorry for fight. Can tell who u want don’t listen to me. Also check email & get better phone. With internet!!!!**

Something in Sid relaxes. He hates fighting with Alex. _I’m sorry too. And my phone has internet :-p_

Sid’s phone barely has internet, but he can at least access his email. He pulls it up and finds one from Alex with the subject line _sorry sid(((((((((((((((((((((((((((_

He opens it and reads, **Not looking good for u & G **with a link to twitter.

**@28CGiroux 15 Oct 2012**  
**Big day tomorrow. Finally get to see that little nugget @ryannehaileyb. Also my big sister making trip. #GreatGirlsGoodTime**

Ryanne. Claude mentioned her a few times in texts. Sid never thought anything about it. Or if he did, he dismissed it in favor of keeping his hopes alive, just like he dismissed the way Claude was slow to text back, and Claude not mentioning that he was going to fucking Europe. Stupid. So fucking stupid. He flips back to his text messages.

_Guess that’s over with then._

**Sucks.**

_Yeah._

Two days later, frustrated and embarrassed that he even entertained, much less verbalized to another human being, the idea of deepening his relationship with Claude, he sits down for an interview with the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Of course they ask him about Claude’s fucking wrists and if he remembers hitting them. Maybe if they weren’t in the middle of a lockout with no end in sight, maybe if it was longer than two days after that dumb tweet, he would’ve answered with his normal media-friendly neutrality. But that’s not what happens.

“No. I really like to win the faceoff. I don’t try to go after his wrists but if I caught it, I’m not sorry for it. I think it’s hilarious I hear that stuff from Philly. It’s comedy to me to be honest with you. They’re probably involved in that stuff more than any team in the league and they’re the ones always talking about it. I guess I’m not apologetic. I was trying to win a faceoff and if I caught his wrist, then I caught his wrist. He seemed to play okay so I couldn’t have hurt him that bad.”

And that’s the last significant comment Sid has on Claude for the next two and a half years.

 

* * *

 

** PART TWO **

 

_2015 IIHF World Championships_

Claude taps his stick on the locker room floor and tries to ignore the buzz around him as he waits for coach to address them before practice. He’d arrived early to run a couple solo drills to work out the excess energy he’s feeling. It’s not nervousness. Two and a half years of avoiding a guy you had two weirdly intense sexual encounters with only to be forced into close proximity with him for two-plus weeks in the name of national pride is no reason to be nervous. No, Claude is just… _anticipating._

“Ok there, G?” Schenner asks as he suits up on the bench next to Claude.

“Yeah, man. Just ready to get this show on the road.”

“I hear ya. Wonder where our new captain is? You’d think Crosby would be the first one in the room.” Claude’s eyes fly to Schenner, but he’s pulling on his shin pads. “Probably still sulking from going out round one. Always love when the Pens have a shitty season, right?”

Schenn shoots him a grin, but Claude only grunts in response. At least the Pens fucking made it to the playoffs, he wants to snap.

“On the same team now,” he says mildly. “So let’s hope he’s back up to super star status.” Schenn rolls his eyes.

The locker room door opens as Claude’s attention is taken by the equipment manager stopping by to retrieve Claude’s stick and put it with the others waiting to be picked up for practice. Claude hands it over as Schenn says “Speak of the devil.”

_And he shall appear_ , Claude finishes silently. He swallows and discovers his mouth has gone dry. Crosby and MacKinnon have entered the room together, both already in their Under Armor. Crosby is laughing at something Nate is saying as he scans the room. His eyes flicker as they reach Claude but pass over him quickly. Claude resists the urge to leave the room on some pretense or another—partially because Crosby is blocking the only exit. But he does turn back to his locker and make a show of digging around in his gym bag. When he finally looks back up, Sid’s at his locker, pulling on his pads. Claude turns to Schenner and aggressively makes conversation with him about the Phillies season so far—something neither of them know anything about—until McLellan rounds them all up.

After practice and tape review, Claude makes his way back to the hotel alone to catch a nap before team dinner. He rides the elevator to his floor and makes his way to his door. As he digs for the key, the elevator dings and he glances up to see— _of-fucking-course_ —Crosby step out, toting his bag. Sid spots him immediately and, because Claude cannot catch a break, trots over.

“Hey, man,” he says, as if the last time they spoke to each other was yesterday.

“Hey,” Claude returns. They stand there like idiots staring at each other. Then Sid grins at him.

“We look like idiots standing out here. Let’s go in your room.” Claude just had a shitty fucking season. He’s in Prague instead of the Stanley Cup Playoffs. He’s standing in front of a guy he fucked and then ghosted like a teenager. Then spent two and a half years masturbating to memories of while trying to convince himself he wanted to be with his beautiful, uncomplicated girlfriend until she got so fed up with his “emotional unavailability” she dumped him. And now the object of fantasies has reappeared in his life and wants to go in his room. Claude can’t help it—he laughs and laughs and laughs until he’s practically crying. Sid looks at him like he’s crazy, but by the time Claude finds his key, he’s laughing too.

“Get in here, asshole.” Claude claps Sid on the back and drags him in the room.

Once inside, they don’t get much chattier. Sid sits on Seguin’s bed while Claude moves around the room unloading his gear, mostly for something to do. He realizes that, though he and Sid have been as intimate as two people can be physically, they’ve never actually had a civil conversation in person.

“Claude, just sit down, I’m not going to bite you,” Sid says. Claude tosses him a speaking look from the closet where he’s hanging his shoulder pads to dry out. Sid rolls his eyes, but Claude’s gratified to see a flush creep up his cheeks. He has mercy on him, though, and moves to his bed.

“Look,” Crosby begins. “I don’t want us to be weird around each other for the whole tournament. It’ll mess up team dynamics, we’ll be distracted. Let’s just concentrate on winning, eh?”

“What, you’re not gonna lure me into the locker room bathroom for some pre-game stress relief?” Claude jokes, then immediately cringes, thinking he may have gone too far. But Sid just laughs.

“Your honor is safe with me,” he says. “Plus I try not to fuck guys with girlfriends.” Sid’s smiling as he says it, but he looks distinctly uncomfortable. Claude blinks. Is that _why_ Sid had been such a dick in that interview about Claude’s wrists? But how could he have known then? Claude shakes his head. Not important right now.

“Uh, not saying we should—do that—but I don’t have a girlfriend. Haven’t for a few months now.”

“Oh. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. For the best.”

“Oh,” he says again. “Well good then.”

“Yeah.”

That seems to be the extent of the conversation they can manage, so Sid clears his throat. “I’m gonna go then. I’ll see you at team dinner?”

“I’ll be there.” Obviously. God, they’re so awkward.

Sid reaches the door just as it opens from the other side as Seguin steps in. “Oh, Sid, hey!” he says, and Claude sighs. Of course the kid is star struck.

“Seguin,” Sid nods, moving around him to leave because Seguin’s standing in front of the door like an idiot. Once Sid’s gone, he closes the door and turns to Claude with raised eyebrows.

“What was that about?”

“Seggy, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Claude says, and strips down to his underwear to sleep.

***

Canada lights up the preliminary round at Worlds, and it turns out Sid and Claude play beautiful hockey together. The media is making a fuss over it, but Claude’s not surprised. He’s good and Sid’s good, so why wouldn’t they be good together?

No, their chemistry on the ice doesn’t surprise him, but their chemistry off it has thrown him for a loop. After their first stilted conversation, things between them have been surprisingly easy. It helps to have MacKinnon and Seguin around all the time. Both of them are outgoing and excitable, so Sid and Claude mostly just have to sit back and pretend to be jaded while Nate and Segs cut up just to show off for them. But it’s nights like tonight, when they have a couple days between games so the kids have gone to find a bar while he and Sid have a quiet dinner at the hotel, that cause Claude to marvel at how different things are between them than they used to be.

“Are we getting old?” Sid’s reclining on Seguin’s bed making his way through a handful of clementines, rinds on the table next to him. From his bed, Claude reaches over and snags one from him, ignoring his indignant squawk. He enjoys watching the methodical way Sid peels each piece of fruit. He especially enjoys the offended look Sid gives him as he savages the one he stole. 

“Why, because we’re not out with the rest of the team right now?”

“Yeah. It’s not even that I’m trying to be responsible. This is just so much better than sitting in some dark, smoky hole-in-the-wall with shitty beer on draft and bad service.”

“Awww, Cros, you know you love spending time with me.”

“Shut up,” Sid says, smiling and throwing piece of rind at him, which Claude catches easily because Sid’s nothing if not predictable.

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. And tomorrow we can bang loudly around the locker room and look smug while Seggy and Nate cry about their hangovers.”

“I do love that idea.”

Claude reaches for another clementine and this time Sid hands one to him. They snack in companionable silence for a few minutes before Claude says, “Did you _ever_ like going to bars with the team? I can’t picture it.”

Sid shrugs. “I mean, I’d rather have everyone over to my place for a barbecue? But yeah, there was a time when I used to do that a lot.”

“Really? I always pictured you as a goody two shoes, in bed by 9 on off-days.”

“Oh, shut up,” he says, then laughs. “There was a time when Geno first came over that he would drag me out _all the time_. He said it was because he couldn’t speak English and needed me to interpret for him. But I figured out that was a lie the third time he got me fall down drunk off vodka shots. I couldn’t speak English myself at that point, much less help him. Fucking Russians.”

Claude raises his water bottle in a toast of agreement.

“Alex was worse, though,” Sid continued. It took Claude a second to figure out who Sid meant, though.

“Ovechkin?” Claude didn’t know they were friends outside of media appearances.

“Ohhh yeah. Whenever we played each other, no matter the outcome of the game, he would make me buy him tequila shots. _Nice_ tequila. If he lost, I had to buy them because he was ‘too sad’ and I had to make him feel better. If he won, I had to buy them because obviously loser buys. Such an asshole.”

“Was Geno there, too,” Claude fishes. “Why didn’t he have to buy them?”

“Nah, a lot of this was when they were in that stupid fight. Maybe Gonch or Semin joined every now and then. But mainly it was just me and Alex.”

Claude knows that Ovi is somewhat flexible in his sexuality. He wonders…but fuck it, they’re friends now, he can just ask. “Sid, were you and Ovi, like, _together_?”

Sid startles and looks over. “Oh, uh. Yeah. Kinda.”

“Kinda?”

“I wouldn’t have called him my boyfriend, but yeah, I guess we were more so than I’d ever been with anyone else. But that was over with a long time ago, and now we’re just friends.”

A glance at the clock tells Claude that Seguin will be back for curfew soon, but he can’t seem to let this go. For some reason, he just imagined that Sid’s MO was to hook up when he could, not form attachments, and avoid other players at all costs. Before they hooked up, Claude hadn’t heard a whiff that Crosby might be anything other than straight, and that’s very hard to accomplish in their insular, gossipy league, so finding out the two best players in the league were together at one point and kept it a secret is blowing his mind.

“Do you mind if I ask what happened? It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me.”

Sid stands and takes a minute to fuss over his fruit, throwing the rinds in the trash and brushing off the bed. When he sits back down, he only looks a little uncomfortable. “I don’t mind telling you, I guess, though my interpretation might be different from Alex’s.

“For one, we were just better off as friends, in my opinion. He wasn't, um, as into some of the more...dramatic things...that I am in bed."

"Oh, do tell."

"He was really good at the praise parts of it," Sid says, face bright red. "But the, uh, controlling parts not so much. He was too sweet. Ahh, shit. Ok. Moving on. We’re too different. I respect him and—” Sid’s face takes on a slightly constipated look. “I—I love him, you know. After all we’ve been through together, as faces of the league and personally, I can say that’s true. But we need different things to be happy. Things that aren’t compatible. He’s so open about everything. And I wouldn’t say I’m secretive. I’m just _private._ That was a big hurdle to get over.”

“Did he want to come out?” The thought makes Claude want to vomit.

“No, not how you mean. Not to the public. But he did want people close to us to know.” Sid smiles. It’s impossibly fond and sad at the same time. Claude has to look away. “He was happy. He wanted to share it with everyone. I didn’t. So we just kind of…drifted apart after a while. And now we’re good friends.” Sid’s mouth twists wistfully, then he shrugs and stands.

“I should probably get back before the drunkies arrive.”

“Yeah.” Claude stands too as Sid crosses to the door. Before he opens it, Claude asks, “Would you do it differently?”

Sid pauses with his hand on the door knob, and looks at Claude contemplatively. “If I could go back to that time, no, I don’t think I would. I wasn’t ready. I still had too much to prove, and I wouldn’t have wanted to take the chance that it would get out.” He opens the door. “Now, though? I think I’d like people to know, yeah. If I was in love, I’d want to share it with everyone.” With that he leaves, and Claude can’t help but feel he took any chance Claude had at sleep with him.

***

 

Claude doesn’t stop thinking about Sid’s revelation for days. Even as the move out of the preliminary rounds and each game could send them packing, he thinks about it. The other group is playing at a rink several hours away, so Claude won’t see Ovi unless and until they meet in the final round, but he tries to remember times he’s seen him and Sid interacting, if there had been any indication that they were more than friends. He can’t remember a single instance, though, where their closeness seemed more than something the media was trying to manufacture. He’s tries to imagine what would have happened if they had gone public, but he can’t think on it too long or his hands start shaking.

The thought of coming out to the world terrifies Claude. He’s always hoped that he’ll end up marrying a girl so that he never has to. At least, not with his career the way it is now. Sid, at least, has a cup and two Olympic gold medals under his belt. If he had too much to prove before 2009, he’s definitely not in the same position now. Claude, on the other hand, has zero cups and wasn’t even on the roster for Sochi.

But the way he and Sid have clicked this tournament—and the way Claude still wants him—has him considering scenarios he never dared before. Claude’s a relationship guy. He likes the stability and the security of having someone who is always there for you, always on your side. Since Ryanne, he’s been on zero dates, hasn’t even flirted with another person. But here he is spending every waking minute with Sidney Crosby, and God knows half the reason he and Ryanne didn’t work was because he couldn’t let go of even the memory of sex with Sid.

Sid’s been reluctant to let anything between them turn sexual, Claude’s noticed. Every now and then he’ll catch Sid’s eyes lingering on parts of his anatomy that are _not_ his face before he turns away, and for Claude’s part, he’s for sure been checking out Sid’s assets. But it’s been nice just to chill with him and be calm between games and practices. He’s easygoing and chatty, with an opinion on everything, and Claude just sits back and lets him opine while imagining jumping him in various equipment closets and steam rooms and maybe even in Seggy’s bed, just to be a dick. The end of the tournament is looming and Claude’s not ready to say goodbye, a thought that scares him almost as much as thoughts of coming out do.

No one notices Claude’s angst, though, not even Sid. And then suddenly the finals are here and Claude still hasn’t decided what to do about them. He finally gets a chance to see Sid and Ovi around each other, though. As the teams are warming up, Sid and Ovi stretch next to each other at center ice. At first, Claude doesn’t think they’re interacting at all but as he skates closer he can see them talking. They’re not looking at each other, as if they’re trying to fool people into thinking the smile on Ovi’s face is not because of what Sid’s currently saying.

Claude comes to a stop next to Sid and sinks down into a stretch.

“Hey,” Sid says, smiling happily. Claude lets Sid’s delight wash over him, then glances at Ovi. He doesn’t look any type of way, really. But there’s a certain set to his mouth Claude doesn’t know how to interpret.

“Ovechkin,” he says.

“Giroux.”

And that seems to be the end of everyone’s conversation. Sid’s oblivious as he stands up from his stretches. “See you on the ice, Alex.” He smirks at Claude as if he knows exactly what Claude’s doing and isn’t going to indulge him, then skates away with a tap of his stick.

“You pretty lucky, there.” Ovi says. Claude glances back at him. His expression hasn’t changed from its mild set, but Claude feels the weight behind his words.

"How so?" Ovi scoffs.

"Leave him behind three years ago, he comes back easy as anything. _Lucky_."

And in that instance, he makes up his mind. Because fuck it. He feels something. And he should try. 

“You know what? I think you’re right.” He stands up as the signal comes for warm ups to wrap and skates to the rink door where Sid is waiting for everyone to leave the ice before him.

“You going in?” Sid asks, smiling the same happy smile at him as before. Claude knows it could be for hockey, but he thinks, maybe, it's for him. 

“Spend the summer with me,” Claude spits out before he can lose his nerve.

“What?”

“Spend the summer with me. We’ll go to Cole Harbour, I don’t care. Let’s…let’s see. Yeah?” Sid gapes at him as players blast past them.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, let’s do it. Let's see.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Sid and Claude arrive at Sid’s house in Cole Harbour, fresh off their gold medal win, and he calls his mom to let her know he’s there, she barely blinks to hear he has a house guest. But when Sid mentions who it is, the pause over the line is weighty.

“Sid, you never do the expected, do you?” she finally says. Sid laughs.

“Mom, I love you. You are the only one who thinks that.” Claude nudges him with a questioning raise of his eyebrows. Sid gives him a reassuring wink, which sends Claude into a fit of laughter between gasps of "Oh my god never do that again."

“Well, I’m sure that’s not true,” Trina says loyally. “The two of you stop by for dinner at the end of the week when your sister is at home, all right?”

“Yes ma’am,” Sid says and hangs up. “Shut up, you asshole.” He shoves Claude into the kitchen counter.

Claude shoves him back, which results in a tussling match on the kitchen floor, which in turn results in Sid blowing Claude next to the dog bowls. Sid spares a beat to be thankful they didn’t stop by his parents’ to pick Sam up on their way to the house. Claude offers to return the favor but Sid’s enjoying laying next to him while he’s spent and satisfied and Sid’s dick is still hard enough to cut glass. He tells him as much, and Claude looks at him like he’s crazy.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to take care of this?” he asks, rubbing his hand gently across the front of Sid’s boxer briefs. The rest of Sid’s clothes came off in the scuffle, but somehow Claude’s managed to remain on. Sid wonders idly if Claude figured out that was part of Sid’s plan. Probably, he’s a pretty smart guy.

“Yeah,” Sid grits out. “Keep doing that, though. Gentle.” He works to control his breathing as Claude continues to move his hand, applying about as much pressure as Sid can take.

“You like some weird shit, you know?” That surprises a laugh out of Sid, and the movement jolts his erection into Claude’s hand, turning his laugh into a gasp. He grips Claude’s hand to keep it in one place while he gets control of himself.

“Not so weird,” he says after a minute.

“No, maybe not. Guess it’s just not what I’m used to.”

“Do you like it? The things we’ve done?” Claude leans over and presses a kiss to the underside of Sid’s jaw.

“Babe, I love it.”

Sid can’t help the smile that slides over his face at the endearment. “Good.”

“I guess, though…”

“Yeah?”

“I know why I like it. You do everything I say, you’re so easy for it. But it’s not how you are in real life. The things you've let me do to you, I can’t…it’s hard for me to reconcile how you are in real life with the way you let me control and, and humiliate you when we had sex. I mean, you let me order you to walk around your friend’s party with come dripping down you the first time we ever did it, and you hated me then. ”

Sid can feel his dick softening a little at the turn of the conversation. But Claude doesn’t sound judgmental, just like he’s trying to understand him, so he doesn’t mind. Alex never asked why Sid likes the things he likes, and no one else has been around long enough to do so, so Sid doesn’t have a ready answer. Fleetingly, he thinks he and Alex might have had a better chance if he had been interested in the whys behind the requests Sid made in the bedroom. Now if he’s have to contemplate his own psyche a little too hard, Sid kind of loves that he and Claude are talking about this.

“OK let me ask you,” he says finally. “Are you trying to demean me with the stuff that we do?”

That trips Claude up a bit. “Um. Well, yeah, I guess. In the context of what we’re doing.”

“The scene,” Sid supplies.

“Sure. Yeah, so that might be the goal. But I’m not, you know, trying to demean you as a person.”

“OK, and after we’re done, do you think less of me?”

“No, of course not.” Sid smiles at his offended tone.

“And do you run and tell your friends how you had Sidney Crosby laid out on his kitchen floor practically naked and begging for you to let him come after you blew your load down his throat?”

“Jesus, Sid, no!” Claude’s so appalled he jerks up into a sitting position, and Sid laughs at him, not unkindly.

“Okay, so why would I be embarrassed then? I like…those things. I like feeling like that.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I need…I need to feel like I’m less sometimes.” Now Sid sits up too. This part is a little more difficult to talk about coherently. “I’m the best hockey player in the world. No, stop,” he says as Claude rolls his eyes. “I’m serious. Sure, that’s arguable, but I mean, when it comes down to it, until McDavid and Eichel and whoever get a little more seasoned, it’s me and Alex and Geno. I’ve got a nation riding on me, I’ve got a crazy sports city riding on me. Alex and I saved the entire fucking sport to hear some people talk about it.

“So sometimes I like to know that I don’t have to be The Next Great One or whatever. In fact, I can be the farthest thing from that. I can be someone who walks around at a party with come all over him, or begging to get off from a person who used to hate me.”

Claude squints his eyes at him skeptically. “You’ve got plenty of people out there telling you you’re not the greatest.”

“Yeah, but those people don’t matter.” Sid waves his hand dismissively. “That’s just noise. If I played for their team or their country, they’d ride my dick just as hard as everyone else does.”

“Oh my god, you sound like such a jackass. Also,” Claude says, “I haven’t heard you beg yet.”

“No, you sure haven’t,” Sid says, and pulls Claude’s hand down to his rapidly re-hardening dick. “Wanna see if you can make me?”

Twenty minutes later, as they once again lay gasping on the kitchen floor, Sid rolls his head to face Claude. “So you’ve never done anything like this before? Sex like this, I mean?”

“You’re the first,” he says.

“You’re really good at it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says and smiles slyly. “You’re like the Sidney Crosby of fucking.”

A surprised guffaw bursts out of Claude and he rolls on top of Sid. “You idiot. I don’t have the energy to punish you for that.” But he does have the energy to kiss him senseless.

***

The summer passes in a haze of sex and training and Sid and Claude avoiding the outside world at all costs. Sid texts Alex every now and then, but after Worlds he hasn’t been as willing to communicate. Sid tries not to let it bother him.

He also tries not to notice how Claude becomes more and more withdrawn as they near the start of the season. Some days they’ll fuck in the morning before they train, have lunch with Taylor, and fish until it’s too dark to see, then end the night wrapped up in each other and everything is perfect.

Other days, Claude will be moody, snapping any time Sid tries to show him the smallest bit of affection. He stays on the couch watching TV, barely speaking. It’s alternately annoying and devastating. Sid can feel himself falling deeper for Claude than he’s ready for, and to have him pull away gives Sid way more emotions than he’s used to having when it comes to relationships.

Every now and then, Sid tries to bring up the season, how they might continue when they’re separated by miles and rivalries, but Claude won’t hear it. He either waves it off with a laugh and a promise that they’ll have plenty of time to talk about it later, or he bitches at Sid for making everything more complicated than it needs to be.

Then a day comes when Sid decides they need to make their pre-season media commitments. In the morning, gets Claude to promise to book his flights, then doesn’t see him for the rest of the day. He tries not to let it worry him when it gets to be the time they usually go to bed and Claude still isn’t back. He settles in bed to read, but only a few minutes later he hears the front door slam, and then Claude appears in the bedroom doorway.

Claude looks...intense. His hair is wild as if he's been running his hands through it, and he's staring at Sid as if Sid's the very last drop of water in a desert. As soon as he steps in the room, he strips down to his underwear, same as Sid, and crawls into bed. 

"Hey," Sid breathes, tossing his book to the floor. He wasn't hard when Claude walked in, but he's rapidly getting there. He pushes the covers down so Claude can see. Heat flares in his eyes. He scoots up to lay next to Sid, propped up on pillows, and reaches down to caress his erection. He's gentle with it, almost experimental. He squeezes just to the side of too hard and Sid makes a sound low in his throat. Claude turns to kiss Sid's neck as if chasing the noise. 

"Does that feel good?" 

"Yeah."

"Do you want me to make you come?" 

Sid swallows. "Yes." Claude contemplates him for a moment, still working Sid's cock. 

"Okay." Swiftly, he straddles Sid, lining up their still-covered cocks. He moves against Sid in long, slow thrusts. A spot of pre-come stains his boxer briefs. When Sid's hard enough that his own underwear can't fully contain his cock, Claude stops thrusting and shifts forward so that the tip of Sid's cock that's peeking out rests right on Claude's taint. The sensation is overwhelming in its oddness. Sid wants to thrust up, but Claude is holding his hips down. Claude keeps him there until he's almost whining with his need for friction. Finally, he rubs himself across Sid, barely any pressure, teasing them both.

"Do you think you can come like this?" he asks, voice low and hypnotic. Sid can't catch his mood, but it's making him shake. 

"No, it's not enough." Claude narrows his eyes.

"I think you can." 

"Claude, I can't," Sid says, distressed now. He doesn't want to disappoint him. But there's just no way. 

"Shh," Claude reaches up to stroke his hair. "I can make you come like this, don't worry. Do you believe me?" 

Sid does. "Yes, Claude." 

"Good. That's good. Now, I want you to fuck me." 

Instantly, Sid reaches down too pull at Claude's underwear, but just as instantly, he's restrained. 

"No, just like this," Claude says, and comes down harder on Sid's cock, pressing it into his taint and crease. Sid doesn't really understand, but he's eager to please, and desperate for friction. He thrusts upward and uses his hands to pull Claude's hips down in time, dry humping like teenagers. 

"Yes, Sid," Claude hisses. "That's it. That's it. Fuck my cunt. I'm so wet for you." 

"Oh my god," Sid gasps at Claude's words, unexpected and wildly hot. Claude graphs one of Sid's hands from his hips and brings it up to his pec. He forces Sid to squeeze it, then moves his hand to the other side to do the same. Before Sid can even enjoy it, though, he knocks his hand away and snags Sid's hair, dragging him up to put his mouth on Claude's nipple.

"Suck it," he commands. Sid does, laving it with his tongue, tugging Claude's nipple into his mouth. Suddenly he's being pulled back and pressed up against the other side. This time, he sucks greedily without being told.

"So good, baby," Claude says, sounding breathless for the first time. "Are you ready for more?" He nods eagerly. Claude scoots back enough to pull Sid's cock from his underwear, then does the same with his own. He lines them up again and lays on Sid so that they're cocks are pressed between them. 

"You can move," Claude says, and Sid immediately begins to thrust. It's awkward and not slick enough and he can't stay lined up so that he feels Claude's cock the whole time. But Claude is sucking at his neck and playing with his hair and that feels so good he's not really worried about coming until Claude whispers in his ear. "I want you to come now." 

Sid freezes. There's no way, no way--"I know you can do this, baby. I know you can." He leans back, takes both their cocks in his hand. "Sid, come, now." Sid surges into Claude's hand and comes. It's weak, so weak, but it still covers Claude's hand and Sid could almost cry from relief. 

Claude holds up his hand so Sid can see the results. "Look what you did? You did just what I asked. You did so good." Sid whimpers at the praise. "Do you want some?" he asks.

Sid has already forgotten what he's talking about, but he nods anyway. Claude brings his hand to Sid's mouth. Sid opens it so Claude can feed him the come, but instead Claude caresses Sid's face, smearing his come from forehead to chin. "Feel how good you were for me," he whispers. Sid reaches up to touch it, but Claude captures his hand, placing it back on the bed. Then he scoops up come still on Sid's stomach and this time he does feed it to him. Sid sucks on his fingers like he's dying for it. Claude leans forward and licks the come from Sid's face. "You taste so good, babe." 

Sid's dick is getting hard again, and Claude notices. "Look at that," he says. He pulls Sid away from sucking on his fingers and directs him to his plumping cock. "We're going to take care of that, don't worry." 

Claude slides off the bed to take his underwear all the way off, and Sid tries to follow him, to keep touching him, but Claude pushes him back down to the bed, propped up on the pillows as he was before. Claude straddles him again, but doesn't sink down. Instead, he grips his cock with one hand bringing it right up to Sid's face. Once again, he uses Sid's hair to direct him where he wants him to look. 

"Do you want this?" He slides Sid's face across his dick, and Sid nods, not eager like before, but overwhelmed in the best possible. He can barely think. Claude's never been like this. They have intense scenes all the time, but never like this, never where Claude seems so willing to make Sid feel every ounce of desperation and debasement that he possibly can. Sid loves it, he loves it. If some part of his mind is telling him this is so intense for a reason--and not a good one--he ignores it. 

"That's so good, Sid. I love how you want me. Now, do you think you can fuck me for real this time?" A lance of doubt pierces through Sid's lust haze as he looks down at his cock, which isn't quite recovered, and he lets out a distressed noise.  

"Shh, shh," Claude soothes him. "Do you need more time?" 

"Please," Sid says hoarsely.

"Okay, baby." Claude positions him how he wants, pulling him up a little further on the pillows, and he realigns his cock to touch Sid's cheek.

Once he gets him situated, he puts two fingers inside his mouth. "Suck." 

Sid moans and does so, closing his eyes at the sensation, but Claude snaps "Look at me," and Sid's eyes fly open. The look in Claude's eyes almost makes Sid close his again, it's so intense, but he doesn't. 

Claude's fingers remain in Sid's mouth, pressing down slightly on his tongue, as he drags his dick across Sid's cheek. "Do you feel that?" Sid nods, sucking harder on Claude's fingers, gazing up at him. But Claude's eyes flare, and he slaps Sid in the face with his cock. " _I said_ , do you feel it?" He presses even harder on his tongue. 

For a second, Sid remains confused. Then his eyes widen and he repeats, "I feel it," but it's garbled and spit runs down his chin. His face burns with humiliation, but Claude’s looking at him like he’s the best thing in the world and that makes Sid feel better, makes him harder. 

Claude says “Good. Because in a minute, I’m going to take this,” he slaps Sid with his cock again, “And feed it to you. And I’m going to let you touch yourself at the same time,” Sid moans at this. “But you can’t come. And you can’t make me come. I’ll be very disappointed if anyone comes, do you understand?” Sid doesn't, really. Why wouldn't he want to come? But he nods anyway.

Sid gets one more slap. “Say, I understand, Claude.” He uses his thumb to hold Sid’s chin, so Sid has an even harder time speaking, spits even more. He wants to give Claude a death glare, tell him to fuck off, but it turns him on so much. Tears leak out of his eyes, and he doesn’t think his dick has ever been so hard. 

Claude takes his fingers out of Sid's mouth, trailing more spit down his chin and chest. Claude wipes his fingers off across Sid’s throat. He backs up a little, holds his dick, grasps Sid’s chin again, forcing his mouth open.

“When I feed this to you," he says, "you can touch yourself, okay? However you like. But remember, you can’t come. And I’m going to make you choke on it, and you’re going to take it all the way down. But I can’t come either. We both have to last three minutes. I’m going to set the timer on my phone.” He reaches over and does so. “And don’t hold back. Suck me and rub yourself off good. But don’t come.” 

Claude must sense how nervous Sid is because he leans down to whisper in his ear again. “I know you can do this. Just for three minutes ok? I’ll be right there with you” Sid nods, and Claude presses a kiss under his ear. “So good for me. I knew I could count on you.”

“You can always count on me.” Claude stares hard at him, then lightning fast reaches for his phone and sets the timer. He sets a punishing pace as he thrusts into Sid's mouth, and Sid can barely keep up with him, but Claude can count on him so he makes it work. When he feels Claude's hips stutter he forces him back, knowing that it's his responsibility to keep him from coming. In some distant part of himself, he can feel his own hand around his cock, but he's so overwhelmed with  _ClaudeClaudeClaude_ that he knows he's in no danger of making himself come. 

Finally the timer sounds, and Claude pulls away immediately, shutting it off. Sid tries to chase him, but Claude gently pushes him back. He reaches into bedside drawer where Sid keeps the lube. He takes charge of Sid's hand, pouring way too much lube on it, dripping it down on the blankets, making everything filthy. 

Claude guides his hand to his hole and Sid works him open. The noises Claude makes at Sid's touch are almost inhuman. He puts his fingers up against Sid’s lips again, but he’s moaning so hard and his eyes are closed so tight he can’t quite get them in, so Sid turns his head and sucks them down. His own hand meanwhile is so slippery with lube, sliding in and out of Claude’s hole with almost no effort. Finally, finally Claude jerks Sid’s hand away, pulling it around to his chest again, making Sid squeeze one pec and then the other, just as he did earlier, smearing the lube all around. He pulls Sid up, shoves his face into one side of his chest, orders him to “Lick.” Sid does, and then Claude moves him to the next, and says “Lick them, oh god, Sid lick my tits.”

As he says it, Claude lines himself up and sinks onto Sid’s cock. Sid stutters into him at first, overcome, but he finds his rhythm, and Claude murmurs to him, “yes, that’s it, fuck me, fill me up. I'm so wet, Sid, I’m so wet all for you."

“Oh my god Claude, please, please I have to…”

“Yes, come, Sid, do it. Fill me up." And even though Sid had already orgasmed once tonight, come shoots out of him, too much to stay inside, and drips down Claude's ass cheeks.

Sid doesn’t think he’ll ever stop coming, but he finally does, and Claude pulls off him, pushing him down to the pillows and flipping around so his ass is in Sid's face. 

"Eat me out," he demands. 

Sid doesn’t need to be told twice, immediately spreading Claude’s cheeks and putting his mouth on his hole. He sucks and Claude cries out.Almost as if in retaliation, Claude takes Sid’s softening cock into his mouth, sucking just like Sid did to him. Sid screams into Claude's hole he’s so oversensitive.

Claude pulls off long enough to command, “Keep licking. Don’t stop until I say.” So Sid keeps licking and crying out into Claude’s hole and Claude keeps sucking at his hypersensitive cock, crying out around it himself each time Sid makes a noise, as if that’s turning him on just as much as Sid’s tongue. Finally, Sid lets out a desperate “Please, please” that he doesn’t know how Claude hears, but he must because he pulls off immediately and flips back around, moving down Sid’s legs, gripping his cock.

Sid's eyes are closed, tears leaking out. Claude says “Watch.” And Sid’s snap open in time to see Claude coming all over Sid’s cock and balls.

Claude says, “Can you take just a little more sweetheart?" And it’s the "sweetheart," something Claude's never called him, that convinces Sid that he can, so he nods. Claude reaches down and gently rubs his come into Sid, as if it were lotion. Sid can't help crying again at his gentleness.

When Claude finishes, he moves up to kiss the tears from Sid’s face and murmur to him, almost incoherently, “You were so good, that was so beautiful. I’ve never felt so good in my life, Sid. Thank you, thank you. Nobody’s ever been so good for me, you were the very best.” And Sid’s embarrassed those words mean so much to him, but mostly feels too blissed out to worry about it. He floats in and out of a haze, and only vaguely feel Claude taking a wash cloth to him, tenderly wiping down his face before moving to his body, careful to avoid his cock.

Later, after Sid’s come back into himself a little, and Claude has moved them from Sid’s room to the guest room where there are clean sheets, they take a lazy shower, with Claude supporting most of Sid's weight. Sid pulls Claude tight around him, and gives Claude’s words back to him, “Thank you. I’ve never felt so good in my life. Nobody can make me feel that way but you.”

“It wasn’t too much?”

“No, it was perfect.” 

***

The next morning, Sid wakes up sore and disoriented at not being in his own room, but in a fucking fantastic mood. He stretches beside him, but the sheet is cold. Then images of the most amazing sex of his life fly out of Sid's head to be replaced with memories of the weird mood Claude was in the day before, the way he stayed away from the house all day, and Sid bolts out of bed. He's naked, but that doesn't stop him from running into his room, ready for a confrontation. Claude isn't there, so Sid grabs a pair of jeans and slides them on before hurrying to the kitchen. 

Claude stands at the counter, fully dressed and drinking coffee. His suitcase rests beside him. 

"Don't," Sid says, voice hoarse and pleading. 

"Sid, don't make this harder than it has to be." And Sid can tell he's trying to sound flip and dismissive, but his mouth gives a miserable twist, and his eyes are red-rimmed.

" _I'm_ not making anything harder. What the fuck are you doing?" 

"You told me to make my plane reservation, so I did. I need to be at the airport soon." Claude turns away from him, bends down for his suitcase, but lunges for it.

"Sid, don't be a child, give me my damn suitcase." 

" _I'm_ being a child? I'm not the one freaking out and running away." Sid can hear the hysteria in his voice, but doesn't know how to stop it. The objective part of him knows the extremeness of his reaction is fallout from all the emotions of the night before, and the whiplash he's experiencing now, but he couldn't give less of a shit. Claude can't run out on him. 

"Sid."

"Just tell me what's going through your head right now. Please, you owe me that." Claude's gaze rakes over Sid's chest where Sid knows there are bruises and patches of beard burn. 

"What are we going to do during the season, Sid? Fly out to each other during off days? Sneak around Pittsburgh and Philly so no one sees us together? We won't be able to go out  _anywhere_. It's not like we can pass it off as just being close friends. As far as the me+dia is concerned, we're  _not_ friends. And even if we were, we wouldn't hang out like that."

"So, what, you just decided this on your own?" 

"There wasn't much to decide! You know I'm right." 

Sid slams his palm against the fridge hard enough to pop the freezer door open.  He slams it closed again. "No you're fucking  _not_. And even if you are, we could've talked about it, come to that conclusion together." 

A car horn sounds outside. "You can't leave," Sid says, more calmly. 

But apparently he can. Without another word, Claude muscles the suitcase away from Sid, and leaves. Sid peers out the window to see a cab waiting.  He considers giving chase, but he's not that pathetic, he tells himself. Instead, he goes back to the guest room, crawls under the covers, and tries not to cry. 

***

NHL Media Day in New York is torture. Claude knows Sid's around somewhere. He heard his big honking laugh earlier in the day, and everywhere he goes he hears reporters buzzing about Sid and Geno's hilarious joint interviews. But it's just his luck that the first person involved in this whole saga that he sees is Alex Ovechkin. 

Claude takes the boxed lunch the organizers provided him to a bench outside the building and no sooner has he unwrapped his sandwich than a six-foot-three Russian swoops down beside him and plucks the chocolate chip cookie from the box. 

"What the fuck, Ovi?" 

"You snooze, you lose," he says gleefully before opening his mouth to take a bite. Claude sees an opening and snatches it right out of his hands. But Ovi just laughs and holds up his hands.

"Okay, okay, I surrender. You can have cookie." He leans back, slinging his arm across the back of the bench. Claude appreciates a nuanced approach to things normally, but he knows what's coming and wants to get it over with as fast as possible.

"Say what you need to say, man. We don't have that much time before afternoon interviews." 

Ovi glances over and his expression is much less jovial than it was not one minute prior. "Okay then. I don't like the way you treat Sid." 

"I don't treat Sid anyway. I haven't seen him in weeks." 

" _I_ have. He's all broken, it's  _your_ fault, and you know what they say? You break it, you buy it." That's a lot to unpack. Claude starts with the easiest part...and maybe the pettiest. 

"When did you see Sid?"

"When he come to my house and cry all over my couch and my shoulder because you big meanie." 

"He  _cried?_ " Claude doesn't know why he's so shocked.  _He_ cried. 

"Yes, very sad. My couch can't get soaked, had to hold him over living room plant so he can be useful, water it." 

Claude doesn't know what to say to that. Ovi must know that his ability to talk about emotions is limited, so he just sighs. 

"Look, Giroux. When Sid and I together, was very hard. We in different towns, wanted different things. But what killed it, more than all that: We didn't  _try_. Didn't talk about trying, didn't want to try. And here you are,  _not trying_. But you know what's difference this time?"

"What?"

"This time, Sid  _wants_ to try. And when he does that, never seen him fail." Without any warning, Ovi steals the cookie back from the box. Claude doesn't even notice, he's too busy contemplating Ovi's words. 

One thing sticks out at him. "Wait a minute. Sid came to  _your_ house to cry to you about a boyfriend? Isn't that a little insensitive?" Ovi lets out an involuntary snort, and Claude can't tell whether he's delighted or pissed at his perception.

"Maybe little bit. But you know Sid. Can't see past his face sometimes." 

"You're not wrong." 

"Never am," Ovi says. Then he gets up. "Do what you know is right." He saunters back inside, chewing the last of the cookie. 

***

That evening, as all the interviews are finishing up, Claude still hasn't seen Sid, though he has heard him a few more times. Every time he does, he heads toward the sound, only to find its creator gone, or to be waylaid by a player wrangler and brought his next interviewer. But after his final interview, he parks himself outside the room he knows Sid is in and waits. 

Geno emerges first and rakes an unimpressed look over Claude. Thankfully, he doesn't say anything as he passes. Sid comes out next, and he almost doesn't  _see_ Claude until Claude clears his throat. Then his eyes widen and he looks over each shoulder as if to check for escape. 

Claude holds his hands up much as Ovi had done earlier. "I come in peace," he jokes. Sid doesn't smile. "Sid please, can we go somewhere?" 

"Here's fine," he nods at the interview set up in the room he'd just come out of. Claude can work with that. As the interviewers themselves exit the room, eyebrows raised at him and Sid, they sit together at the small table set up. 

Once they're situated, Sid nods at him. "Go ahead, I'm listening" 

Great. Great. Now he can't remember a single fucking thing that he prepared while he was waiting for him. Hell, he can't remember the hundred apologies he's thought up since he ran out on Sid, apologies he's practiced every day since. But just as he starts to panic, he feels a hand on his knee. 

"Breathe, Claude. It's just me. It's okay." 

So Claude breathes and believe it's okay, because Sid says it is. "I had a whole big speech prepared," he whines. 

"Oh yeah? What did you say in it?"

"Stupid shit. Shit that I should have said before." 

"Do you remember the gist of it?" 

Claude rubs a hand over his face. "Not really. Mostly that I'm sorry."

"That's a good place to start," Sid says, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 

"I am sorry I ran out like that. It wasn't the way to do things. I regretted it as soon as I got in the cab. But, you know, pride and everything." 

"I know." 

"And the other part of my speech was all about the future and moving forward." 

"You don't remember any of that?" Sid's teasing now, and Claude tries not to pump his fist in victory. 

 "That one was mostly about how I was going to give us a chance. And treat us as a team. One that makes decisions together."

"I don't want to make this easy for you," Sid says, mouth tight. "But you're also giving me what I want. I want to be with you, I want to try."

"That's what I want too." Sid sucks on his bottom lip in thought. 

"How do I know you won't freak out again?" 

"You don't," Claude admits, striving for total honesty even though it might cost him. "But this time I promise to let you hold me together." Then he holds his breath until Sid smiles his just-for-Claude happy smile.

"I think I can do that."

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! I love comments, and thank you in advance if you leave one! 
> 
> Spoiler-y notes, as promised:  
> RE: chose not to use archive warning--I wrote the sex to be understood as completely consensual, but I feel like it can read a little dubcon-y, so I didn't want to tag it at that, but did want the reader to be aware
> 
> RE: D/s undertones--this is not a D/s fic, they are not in a D/s relationship or in a D/s universe. But in the sex scenes they definitely take on those roles to a certain extent. Also since it's not technically D/s, they don't use safewords or anything (thus undernegotiated kink tag), but again, it's written, in my mind, as completely consensual.
> 
> This is (almost) the first fic I've written with explicit sex scenes so uh, the execution may reflect that. I tried hard though!
> 
> And finally! Some notes/links on real life things I wrote about:
> 
> Details on Claude's 2012 summer shenanigans (though sadly he's only shirtless for the [corn hole](www.crossingbroad.com/2012/05/claude-giroux-shirtless-playing-baggo-and-with-two-casts.html), not the [beer pong](https://deadspin.com/5912332/claude-giroux-played-beer-pong-with-casts-on-both-wrists))
> 
> [Here](https://www.cbssports.com/nhl/news/claude-giroux-on-surgery-scars-those-are-from-crosby/) Claude blames Sid for wrist injuries
> 
> Sid on a [rescue ladder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WLjoDVshOl8)!
> 
> Claude and Ryanne (who I tried not to really use in this fic since she's not a public figure) started dating in 2012 as far as I could tell, and [here](https://twitter.com/28CGiroux/status/257880456995946497) is the tweet mentioned
> 
> [General info](https://www.sbnation.com/nhl/2013/1/6/3728892/nhl-lockout-timeline-2012-2013) about the lockout
> 
> Here is Sid's [non-apology](http://blogs.post-gazette.com/index.php/sports/empty-netters/35768-crosby-we-definitely-have-something-to-prove-10-17-12%20) about Claude's wrists
> 
> I don't actually know if Claude and Ovi were at NHL Media Day in 2015, [but Sid definitely was](https://sports.yahoo.com/blogs/nhl-puck-daddy/the-20-things-we-learned-at-the-nhl-player-media-tour-220535256.html).
> 
> And I'm sure there is more I am forgetting.


End file.
